


Good

by Electricviolinist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Hale has looked at the world, and recognised how it needs to change. He's taking big steps towards that change, knowing that he is doing the right thing. Maybe Stiles doesn't agree with him, but Peter knows it won't stay that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In a strange place personally where I'm lacking confidence and drive to get stuff done. So here is my attempt to get myself going again. I will do my best. I would love to hear what you think.

Peter Hale knew he was good.

In as much as a good car is a car that gets one from place A to place B with minimal effort, noise and expense and in good time, and a good wine is one that stimulates positive taste sensation while making one feel pleasantly buzzed with limited headaches. Peter Hale had no time for a moral interpretation on a person, or a werewolf.

Peter Hale was a good werewolf. He loved his pack with a powerful passion, while finding ways to enjoy his own life. He was strong and clever, and as long as he was able, he would use those gifts to ensure his pack was strong and safe. He fulfilled his role as werewolf, as beta or as alpha, he served his purpose and he served it well. He was good.

Scott McCall was a bad werewolf.

As an alpha, Scott McCall was weak. His role in the pack was leader, and yet he seemed incapable of taking on that responsibility, and because of his failure, the pack was a mess. It was vulnerable to every threat, it had lost members that should not have been lost.

Of course, Derek was a poor alpha, too. He’d failed the pack as a teacher and a leader, and yet Peter didn’t treat him to the same fate as Scott. The difference between them was obvious to any. Except for his obvious anger at Laura’s death, Derek had shown himself, through all his life, to be a faithful and useful beta. As a pack member under Talia, he had made the typical mistakes of childhood and adolescence, but had rarely failed his purpose. Scott had rejected authority at every turn, both Peter’s and Derek’s. Derek would fit back into the pack. Scott never could.

It was all very clear to Peter. Obvious. For the sake of the pack, he had sliced open Scott McCall’s throat. It had been necessary and simple and surprisingly easy once he figured out that he could do so without being abandoned by the pack.

What wasn’t so simple was explaining it to an angry, teenage human.

Said human was currently handcuffed to a radiator in Peter’s apartment. Peter’s debate over whether to kill Stiles Stilinski had been much shorter than the one he’d had over killing Scott McCall. Though Stiles was weak (he’d been incapacitated by a radiator and his own pilfered police issue handcuffs) he was extremely valuable to the pack. In fact, if Scott had realised that in time, he might still be alive right now.

“So, what’s the plan now, dickwad?” Stiles kept asking, all teenaged brashness and bluster, though the scent of his fear filled Peter’s apartment more thoroughly than a high quality air freshener.

“Now you accept the new situation,” said Peter, calmly, “I am your alpha and you will be safer and happier for it.”

“Fuck you!” Stiles shouted. It was far from the first time that evening he’d yelled that phrase, and it was failing to grow in strength as an insult. But Stiles wasn’t done. “I’m not a werewolf! I don’t have an alpha! Do you think I would have gotten involved with all this supernatural shit if Scott hadn’t been a part of it? Thanks to you?”

Stiles rattled the cuffs, a movement he had repeated again and again since he’d been chained. He was probably annoyed that his usual flailing had been denied to him. But Peter knew Stiles well enough by now, knew the lack of truth in his words.

“You went looking for a corpse in the woods in the middle of the night,” Peter reminded him, “You would not have managed to resist investigating virgin sacrifices if you were offered a million dollars to do so. And once someone threw banshees and dread doctors into the mix, you would have been just as hooked as you are now. And that’s not even mentioning my own little spree.” Peter shook his head, “You’re attracted to the supernatural like a fly to honey.”

Stiles’ lip stuck out. “Am not,” he mumbled.

Peter just managed to resist replying ‘Are too,’ but it was a close thing. Instead, he stood and began to gather pillows and cushions together, and bring them to Stiles.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, suspiciously.

“I’m making you slightly more comfortable,” said Peter, “It seems you intend to stay for a while.”

Stiles only gaped like a fish for a moment. He recovered quickly. “Look, you can’t keep me hostage, dude!” he protested, “My dad’s the sheriff! He’s going to notice!”

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “That’s quite a problem. For you.”

Stiles’ mouth snapped shut. He was a clever boy. He could make connections.  If Stiles’ dad knew Stiles was in danger, he would put himself in the way without a thought. There was no way John Stilinski could stand back and leave the fate of his child up to other men. He couldn’t wait for those with the knowledge and skills to handle an alpha werewolf to rescue his son. John Stilinski would be here within minutes of discovering Stiles’ situation, and Stiles did not want his father anywhere near the homicidal werewolf.

“Because I am not without sympathy, I will allow you to call him,” Peter said. “You will tell him that you are working on something and will not be home tonight.”

“What if he’s found Scott?”

The teenager’s voice broke as he said his friend’s name. He meant Scott’s body. Peter wished he could have kept Stiles from the sight, could have protected him from the image and the nightmares that would follow, but also knew a mind like Stiles’ would not have found closure, not have accepted Peter’s word on the matter, without witnessing the event.

“That’s not possible,” said Peter.

It made Stiles shiver. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

“That’s OK,” Peter told him. He knew a physical reaction to emotional turmoil was common enough.

“I don’t need your permission!” Stiles cried, through coughs and gasps.

Peter knew an emotional breakdown when he saw one. He took several steps away from Stiles as the teenager coughed and gasped and retched.

“You’re having a panic attack,” said Peter.

“Fuck … you!”

“You need to breathe in shallowly and then breathe out slowly,” Peter explained, as he picked up the object he knew he had left on the counter. “It will pass.”

“I know… how … to deal…”

“Panic attacks tend to inhibit the conscious brain,” said Peter, calmly.

“Fuck you!” Stiles shouted.

Peter stepped back towards Stiles. The boy was making no progress in calming his own panic attack. Though he knew that there was little serious damage likely from a panic attack, he wanted Stiles calm. He crouched down before his captive,

“Oh, god,” Stiles gasped.

Peter pulled the bag over his head. It was a soft material bag. The darkness and the slowing of the oxygen stream would both help Stiles escape his panic, even if Stiles would struggle to see it that way.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouted, but it was softened by the cloth. His breathing was already returning to normal, and Peter took the opportunity of his temporary confusion to stroke his captive’s back soothingly. Stiles’ heartbeat slowed, his breathing became steady. And then Stiles said “I hate you,” and Peter knew it was over.

“That’s better,” said Peter, softly.

“Fuck you!” said Stiles, but with almost no energy, so Peter went back to his task. He collected his spare pillows, the cushions from the couch and some blankets, and took them back to Stiles. The boy was just dropping his head towards his hands, clearly about to pull the bag off. Peter stopped him with one hand on his forehead, which he pushed back upright.

“I need to take the bag off,” Stiles told him.

Peter arranged the cushions, to make a sort of bed, and pulled Stiles away from the wall, as far from the radiator as the cuffs would allow, and onto the pile.

“Please,” said Stiles, “Take the bag off.”

Peter hushed him. “It will help you sleep.”

“No it won’t,” said Stiles, “I’ll jump at every sound.”

“You’ll fall asleep in no time,” said Peter. “We’ll text your dad first.” He took Stiles’ phone from his own back pocket. “What should it say?”

Stiles kicked the floor, uselessly. “Let me go!”

It was a temper tantrum. Again, understandable, but Stiles was too exhausted for it to last long. A couple of kicks to the floor, some more rattling of the cuffs, one of the cushions kicked across the floor. Peter waited it out.

“Fuck you!” Stiles shouted, but his voice was raspy with tiredness.

“I would never say such a thing to my father,” said Peter, “But our relationship was more formal than the one you have.”

Stiles wriggled, but he was tiring. “I’m not helping you kidnap me!” he said, but this time in more of a grumble.

“Stiles,” Peter warned. “You don’t want…”

“I don’t want my dad showing up, yeah I get it!” Stiles sighed. “Just… say I’m saying over at … Scott’s.”

“In what words?”

“In any fucking words!”

“Stiles.”

“OK! Just say ‘Staying at Scott’s’.”

“With a symbol for the ‘at’ or…”

“The word.”

“With any kisses or anything?”

Stiles sighed, heavily. “I can do it.”

Peter found a similar text from a few weeks before, copied and pasted it, and sent it. “It’s done,” he said.

With a sniff, Stiles let his head fall forward. Peter came closer, and moved him so he would be more comfortable on the cushions, his head higher than his body, and threw a blanket over him.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, but not trying to resist.

“Making sure you don’t wake up in pain,” Peter told him.

“Why?” Stiles asked.

“Because I don’t want you to be in pain,” said Peter.

Stiles rolled over, so he was on his front, his arms next to his head, still cuffed around the radiator.  “Why aren’t I dead yet?” he asked.

Peter stroked his head. He could feel the hair through the bag. “I want you to be alive,” said Peter. He unrolled the bag just enough that it no longer covered Stiles’ mouth or nose. “Now sleep.”

Stiles might have tried to disobey the order out of spite, but he was too tired. The need to sleep was too strong, now, and he barely managed to grumble a couple of times before his eyes could not stay open.

While Stiles slept, Peter tidied up, and watched. Sleeping on a floor chained to a radiator wasn’t what he wanted for the boy, but he knew, for now, it was what he could expect. Still, the boy was alluring, made of slender limbs and small muscles, youthful and fragile. So fragile.

When he was sure Stiles slept soundly, he quietly pulled the bag up and admired the beautiful face. He had never and never would enjoy any form of sex without the conscious consent of all participants, but what Stiles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and Peter’s mind couldn’t help but enjoy the images of the young man. If he could get past this, if he could stop seeing the world as a comic book of heroes and villains, Peter would have him squirming in his restraints within seconds.

But, until then, there was nothing Peter could do but wait.

He pulled out his own phone, and took a picture of the sleeping teen. He made sure the handcuffs were clear, and his face recognisable.  He admired his own work, the framing of the image, the tones and highlights. He would treasure the image, but that was not its purpose. He put the bag back over Stiles’ eyes to help him stay asleep, and sent the image in a text.

The recipient was awake. Peter’s phone rang within seconds. He let it ring four times, knowing it would wind up the recipient, and Peter really enjoying winding up that recipient. He’d probably put winding up Derek Hale in a list of his top ten favourite things.

“Derek,” he said, “What a pleasure to hear from you.”

But Derek was already talking over him, angry. Near furious. “What have you done to him? I’m going to fucking tear you apart! I…”

“Derek, stop with the melodrama,” Peter said, with a small smile.

Derek was only quelled for a fraction of a second. “You’re fucking enjoying this!”

“Well, maybe a little,” said Peter, “But it had to be done.”

He heard that catch of breath, of Derek Hale’s anger, that he so often used as a weapon, as armour to keep people away from him, failing. The edge of tears fighting their way up. Derek asked “Is he… dead?”

Peter tutted. “I do not kill people who do not deserve to die, Derek. It irritates me that you would think so.”

He could hear Derek holding in arguments, and was impressed. He’d managed to put Stiles ahead of his own anger. That was the effect Stiles had on people. Even Derek Hale. “What do you want?” he asked, instead.

“I want what I’ve always wanted, Derek,” Peter told him, “I really thought even you should have worked this out by now.”

Derek growled, “You kidnapped Stiles to get power?”

“Power?” Peter growled back, loudly. Too loud. Stiles’ breathing changed, he tensed. He might have awoken. Peter kept still, his own breathing steady and calm. The darkness in the hood and the stillness of the room should help Stiles fall back to sleep. He had acquired some sedatives, being aware that he might have to use them should he need to leave Stiles alone, but he saw that as a last resort.

Derek didn’t speak as they waited. He probably heard the breathing too. Maybe it brought him some reassurance.

“I’m disappointed in you Derek,” Peter said, once he was sure Stiles’ breathing was that of someone asleep once more. He ignored Derek’s huff. “I thought you knew me better.”

“I thought I did too,” Derek grumbled. “Until Laura.”

That irritated Peter, “You know,” he said, “I have better things to be doing than this, Derek.”

Derek failed to hide the jumps in his heartbeat, the fear. “Wait,” he said, voice suddenly resigned, submissive. The power of Stilinski. “What … what do you need from me?”

So Derek thought this was a hostage situation. Maybe he thought Peter would release Stiles once Derek had done as requested. Peter thought for a few moments about that. It would probably help them get to where they needed to be quickly enough.

“I need you here,” said Peter, “by my side. My beta.”

He knew persuading Derek would not be easy. There was a lot of history, there. Derek would resist being a beta once more, would object to Scott’s death, would find it difficult to trust in Peter’s leadership. And yet Stiles had always been the trump card.

Derek swallowed. “I’ll be on the next plane.”

Peter smiled. “I knew you would.” He reached for the end call button.

“But…” Derek’s voice made him pause. “I can’t be your beta. You’re not an alpha.”

Peter grinned. “Aren’t I?” he said, and ended the call, satisfied that Derek would figure out what he meant and be suitably furious. 

And while Stiles slept, peacefully enough, Derek was on his way to join them. There were other stragglers around, Peter's daughter would fall in, the lost mess of McCall's pack would be desperate for a new leader, but even if they didn't, these three, Peter with Derek and Stiles, were a formidable bunch. Peter had made the right choice.

Watching Stiles' chest rise and fall with his comfortable breaths, Peter lay on the couch and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

The night was nice. Peter decided to spend it on the sofa so he could watch Stiles more easily. He dozed, occasionally, but he had never needed many hours of sleep. Which was just as well, when there was a frenzied knock on the door before the sun could even glimmer on the horizon.

He stretched out, unsurprised by the visit, and took another moment to admire Stiles as the boy wriggled, awaking slowly. He hushed his captive, and went to the door, opening it without fear. The freak, the creation of those monsters, the creature they called a chimera stood at the door. Over his shoulder was a loudly complaining and viciously fighting teenage werewolf.

“Theo,” Peter greeted. “Please, come in.”

Theo obeyed. He knew a natural leader when he saw one, and took little persuasion from Peter.

“What can you tell me of Malia?” Peter asked, ignoring the still fighting, if massively overpowered child that Theo dropped to the floor by the couch, and subdued with an arm lock and vicious hand to the neck.

Theo breathed hard for a moment, obviously having not found the capture of Liam as easy as he would have liked Peter to believe. “She’s a bit lost, running the woods. I think she’s considering becoming a full time coyote again.”

Peter glared. “My daughter is lost, and you waste my time with this?”

Theo ducked his head. It was a rather hackneyed show of submission, not entirely believable. But the words were convincing. “I thought this would be solved more simply,” he said.

Looking at the furious but pathetic child before him, Peter accepted that was probably correct.

He knelt down next to the boy, and took a good handful of course blond hair. He forced him to look at Theo, he showed him Stiles, now wriggling to a sitting position, but still bound and blinded. Then he showed him his own red glowing eyes. He spoke in an alpha voice hard enough to make the young thing quiver. He learned from the mistakes of Scott McCall. There was no room for gentle persuasion, no room for soft encouragement or logical arguments.

“Join my pack or die,” Peter told the brat.

The brat, Liam, a name Peter would have to get used to if the boy took up the offer, quivered. He did not jump at the chance.

Peter began a countdown. “Ten, nine, eight…”

“Please!” the boy begged, though for what Peter could not pretend to know. He continued his countdown.

“Seven, six…”

“You killed Scott!”

“Five…”

“You… you…”

“Four, three…”

“But…”

“Two…”

“OK!” the boy shouted. “OK, whatever!”

Peter looked him hard in the eyes. It wasn’t a lie, but it was not the truth either. It was too far from actual loyalty. So he dug his claws into the back of the boy’s neck. An invasion of privacy that would save them all a great deal of heartache in the future.

“Ah,” he said, when he was done. He extracted his fingers and tapped the boy’s face to make sure he was listening once more. “You understand, if you accept this deal and then go back on your word, it will be the girl … Hayden … who pays for your lack of loyalty?”

“No!” The boy was alarmed, furious again. He fought, incompetently against Theo’s hands. Peter sighed dramatically.

“Very well then, I will kill you.”

He lifted his hand.

“No!”

It wasn’t from Liam. Maybe the brat was in too much shock. It was from Stiles. A shout of desperation. Maybe he cared for the boy, but Peter suspected he just didn’t want any more deaths.

Stiles sensed the stillness of the room. “Liam, just… just say yes, OK? He’ll … he… just, don’t die!”

Stiles strained against the cuffs, pulled himself as far from the radiator as possible, as close to Liam as he could get.

“Peter,” Stiles tried. “Don’t… don’t hurt him. Please. He’ll be a good beta.”

Peter hummed. “I heard he tried to kill his last alpha.” He was curious what Stiles would say.

“Yeah, but… but you’re stronger than Scott, aren’t you?”

Those words were delicious from Stiles’ mouth. An admittance of Peter’s superiority. If Stiles said it often enough, Stiles would eventually have to believe it.

“He’s not a threat to you,” said Stiles, sensing more was needed, “He can … you can train him.”

“Can I?” Peter prompted, maybe just hoping for more. More delicious submission from Stiles.

“You can… you could be a good alpha.”

Peter smiled. It was so much progress. This acknowledgement, even if borne of more fear than truth, from Stiles was a thing of beauty. Except if he weren’t careful, Theo and Liam might mistake the source of power in the room.

He crossed to Stiles in less than a second. There was no way Stiles could have seen the move coming, even if he weren’t blinded by the bag. He shouted in surprise and fear when Peter grabbed his leg and once again pulled him away from the radiator. His hands, still chained, stayed put, and Stiles found himself flat out on the floor, sprawled on his belly.

“You have no power, here, human,” Peter breathed. “You speak so nicely, but you will never undermine me in front of my pack.”

He scooped an arm under Stiles’ waist, feeling the flutter of heart and lungs so close, and smacked Stiles on the bottom as though he were a naughty child. He did so many times. The strikes were hard, too. Harder than a human would manage, though of course, never damaging his precious prize. When he felt Stiles had been sufficiently punished, when the bag over his eyes was once again wet with tears, He dropped him to the floor as though he were nothing and turned his attention back to Liam, frozen on the floor. He chose to ignore Theo’s open mouthed look of want.

“You wish to join my pack?” Peter asked the younger boy. “It would be a shame if Stiles’ punishment were for nothing.”

“I’ll join your pack,” Liam agreed, his voice soft. Stiles’ sobs, while admirably well-hidden by human standards, could still be heard by all of them.

And they would all fall. Eventually, Peter would have each and every member of Scott’s pack. They all craved the discipline that Peter would provide and Scott had failed to understand. They needed a real leader. A pack was not a democracy.

“Take him to the other room,” Peter told Theo. “There is an empty safe that I had installed. Put him inside. Let’s call it thirty minutes for each second he hesitated. Five hours.”

The boy looked shocked, but Theo did not hesitate. He pulled Liam once more to his feet and tugged him from the room. Liam did not try to fight, so Peter felt he only needed listen to be certain his orders were obeyed. He could return his attention to Stiles.

Stiles flinched when he realised Peter was once again approaching him. He had not moved, he lay still, on his front. Peter sat beside him, and stroked his back.

“Why haven’t you taken the hood off?” Peter asked.

With a shiver, Stiles pulled his legs up and crawled towards his hands. They easily pulled the bag from his head. But he didn’t reply to the question.

“I think you need this,” Peter told him. “You spent your life testing boundaries, but you never found them. I think you want those boundaries desperately.”

Stiles stayed on his front, still and scared.

“I can provide that for you Stiles. I can help you find your place.”

He didn’t expect Stiles to answer, after the beating, so instead he arranged the pillows. “Sit,” he told Stiles, indicating the space.

“I’d rather not,” Stiles replied.

“I’d rather you did,” Peter told him. And Peter was stronger. Stiles knew it. He crawled once more, then, ever so gently, lowered himself onto his side, and finally, with a grimace, onto his ass, finally leaning his back against the wall.

“So,” said the teen through clenched teeth, “you’re going to win the pack with violence and intimidation? You know what happens to dictators, right?”

“Only unskilled ones,” Peter replied.

Theo returned from his task, and looked hopefully at Stiles. Peter rolled his eyes. “You know your task, Theo.”

Theo’s eyes dropped, but they were still somehow hopeful as he left the apartment.

Peter stood and made Stiles and himself some breakfast.  He thought about training Stiles to be the one to cook. It was possible. Peter understood that he had taken on some domestic responsibilities after the death of his mother. It was, perhaps, that slightly maternal and protective instinct that made Stiles the useful pack member that he was. A homemaking role could be a natural accompaniment to that instinct.

He cooked pancakes, then loaded them with fruit. He had read up on human health, briefly. He’d considered providing only oatmeal for breakfast, but he wanted to show Stiles that life wouldn’t be only dreary now. Though now, looking at the plate of food, he wondered if this was the best way to begin. Stiles needed to see him as the leader, the one who made choices for the well-being of the pack, who would put their health and safety above all things.

He brought the plate to Stiles placed it beside him on the floor. Stiles looked at it with great suspicion. “Is there, like, ketamine or something in there?”

“Not at all,” Peter replied. With his own fork, he cut away a mouthful of Stiles’ breakfast and ate it. Stiles watched.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t prove anything,” the teenager grumbled.

Peter shrugged, and went to fetch his own. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, “tomorrow it’ll be oatmeal.”

Stiles’ heart skipped. “Tomorrow?” he asked in a wobbling voice.

“Well, as confident as I am in my own leadership qualities, I don’t believe I’ll be able to convince you quite so quickly. At least, not sufficiently to let you go freely.”

“You’re never going to convince me,” said Stiles, quietly.

Peter took a mouthful of his own food. “Can I trust you enough to unchain you to eat?”

“I’m never going to follow you,” Stiles told him.

“I can feed you if you wish,” said Peter.

“Never,” said Stiles. “There’s no point. You should cut your losses. Run while you have the chance.”

Peter sat down directly opposite Stiles. He caught the boy’s stubborn gaze, and smiled. “Run from what?”

Stiles only glared. He did not accept the food.

The day was slow going. Peter released Liam after his designated time, finding him swelling with anger. He used his alpha voice to calm him, then reminded him of his promise. Derek would be unlikely to arrive quite so soon, and Stiles needed more time. He called Malia but she didn’t answer. He unchained Stiles, who visibly relaxed with the return of full motion.

He suggested Stiles take some exercise, but Stiles sat on the couch and watched him. His chemo signals were wild, flying about like an angry wasp from emotion to emotion, but he sat still and watched as though he were calm. After a particularly big spike of hatred, Stiles asked “What do you think Malia will do when she finds out about all this?”

Peter took a deep breath, and thought about whether or not to answer. He came to the conclusion that he couldn’t ask cooperation from Stiles unless he demonstrated it first.

“She already knows about Scott, of course,” he explained. “You are hardly her favourite person, after all the nonsense with Lydia. I do not believe she will object to this. And she will understand, soon, that I act only in the best interests of the pack.”

“No one believes your screwed-up logic, Peter,” said Stiles.

Peter shrugged. “I know a pack cannot be formed merely by the force of will of an alpha. I will not shrink from proving my worth.”

The teen rolled his eyes. “Let me go!” he said. “Please! My dad won’t cope alone. We’ve only got each other. He’ll be broken if he thinks something’s happened to me.”

“I promise to let you go when I know I have your allegiance,” said Peter.

“He’s not going to sit back, you know? When Melissa reports Scott as missing…”

“Scott has text his mother to inform her that he is studying with you,” Peter told him, taking the dead teenager’s phone from his pocket and showing it.

It only caused Stiles' a moment's hesitation. “We’re teenagers! We don’t go more than a few days without seeing our parents! Someone is going to notice!”

“And when they do, you will help me deal with the authorities.”

It was pleasing to see he still had the power to make Stiles gape.

“Deal with the authorities?” The teen repeated.

Peter nodded.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Stiles said.

“Your father knows of the paranormal. He knows of the many, many threats to Scott’s life. You will tell him that Scott was killed by a rogue hunter.”

Stiles shivered and turned away, shaking his head.

“Stiles, as one of my betas you are entitled to my protection. I will ensure you go to school and college, I will ensure you are safe and fed and protected, I will even extend that protection to your father. If you were to choose to not be my beta, none of that can happen. Surely you see that.”

Stiles dropped his gaze, the battle rumbling within him, between the pragmatism that was intrinsically part of him and the morality Scott had dumped upon him. It would not be a swift fight.

Derek tried to beat the door down just after nightfall.

Peter was reading a book, Stiles sitting on the couch, boredom now rivalling his other emotions. The booming sounds Derek made were not a surprise to Peter, but Stiles’ heart leapt. He stared at the door to the hallway, down which was the apartment entrance where Derek was stood, now shouting both Stiles and Peter’s names, then sprang to his feet. His intention was obvious. Get to the door, get to Derek, hope Derek would protect him. Derek might even have been foolish enough to try, so Peter did what was natural.

He overtook Stiles with laughable ease, and picked him up. Stiles cried out, fighting with blunt nails and clumsy feet, but Peter put that down to the adrenaline sparked by the noise. He carried the boy back to the radiator and once again attached the boy with the handcuffs. Heavy tears dropped on his hands as he worked. Peter wished they could jump to a place where Stiles would find comfort in Peter’s attentions. He sighed with sad impatience. There would be a long time before Stiles was ready.

Derek burst through the door barely a moment after the handcuffs clicked closed.


	3. Chapter 3

 

The door was ruined. A long jagged crack had split the wood violently, allowing Derek to fall through. It was an impressive feat, Peter had invested in a massively secure door to prevent exactly this kind of thing. Derek stormed through with a vicious hurricane of fury, and for a moment, Peter worried about how far he would be forced to go to make Derek calm down. Maybe he had been wrong to wind him up. But the worry was unnecessary. One claw under Stiles’ chin was enough.

Derek stumbled, tumbling over in an effort to stop himself, staring at Stiles. Peter could smell his chaos of emotions, his sour fear and misery and guilt. It was far too huge a storm of feeling than Derek should have developed for a human who had never been part of his pack, but exactly as Peter expected. Derek had never been able to hide himself from Peter.

“What do you want?” Derek growled, claws scraping Peter’s floor, digging deep grooves into the wooden floorboards that irritated Peter more than the words. Peter snapped his response.

“I told you, Derek. More than once. I want a pack!”

“This is not how you gain a pack!” Derek snarled, all murderous intentions and misery.

“It’s better than your method, dear nephew,” Peter replied. “You began with murder, too, I seem to recall, and then used intimidation and manipulation to maintain your control.”

Derek growled, the sound of a cornered animal, his eyes glued to Stiles, checking every inch of him. “Has he hurt you?” he demanded, and his very soul seemed glued to the answer, to the need for Stiles to be OK.

Stiles paused, feeling the tension, the weight upon his answer, then lied. “No.”

It was the worst choice. Like Peter, Derek would have heard the lie as clearly as a siren, and Peter had barely a second to roll his eyes before Derek was leaping on top of him.

Peter took care to only scratch Stiles a small amount. He’d made a threat, and Derek needed to know he would follow through on his threats, but Stiles was too useful a tool to destroy completely. It would have to be enough to show Derek he was powerless.

Peter rolled with Derek, and landed on top. Derek was more than able as a fighter, with training and strength, but Peter was an alpha. His strength was far greater than Derek could dream, and the wounds he inflicted would last. He sliced Derek’s chest through his shirt, bringing anguished cries from his nephew and the hostage beyond them. Derek roared, spurred on by the sound Stiles made, and aimed a claw at Peter’s head. Peter avoided it with ease, and retaliated with a punch that sent Derek’s head reeling.

Stiles was begging them to stop. Peter threw Derek over onto his front, and forced him to look at the boy, at his tears. At the pleading. Maybe Stiles didn’t even know what he was saying. Maybe.

Derek stopped struggling for a moment, his claws once again digging down into the wood. Enough to hear Stiles’ words.

“Derek, I’m fine, Derek, he just smacked me, I’m… I’m not hurt.”

Derek closed his eyes, trying to hide his own tears even though Peter could smell them. Pretending to be strong for Stiles, even when he was so clearly beaten.

“Please, Peter, don’t hurt him!” Stiles pleaded.  “Please!”

Because Stiles could see that Peter would win any fight. Stiles was understanding the futility of fighting. Peter smiled.

“You made me cut him, Derek,” Peter admonished his nephew. “Look, there, on his neck. Stiles is fortunate I was taking care. A clumsy man would have sliced through his jugular.”

On the ground, the sad scent of Derek’s misery became flooded with guilt as he looked at Stiles. Peter felt the moment their eyes actually met. That familiar tension, that piece of wire that sprung up to join them with a prickling current, was suddenly oh so powerful in the room. It irritated Peter to the extreme, particularly because he felt like no one else was even aware of it. His daughter seemed blind to the link. Stiles himself may as well have been completely senseless.

Derek felt it, of course, but had believed it one sided. Derek had run from it.

“I’m sorry,” Derek grumbled, his gaze dropping uselessly to the floor.

“You’re sorry,” Peter repeated, thoughtfully, aware he was probably not even talking to him, but pretending anyway. “Your apology is of no value to me, Derek.”

“I’ll… I’ll be your beta,” Derek tried.

Peter hummed, “I have no use for a beta I cannot rely upon, Derek.”

The link between Stiles and Derek tightened like stretched elastic, under the fear of separation, “I’ll… I’m sorry, I won’t try that again.”

A hint of a lie could be heard in his nephew’s voice, but to Peter it was a powerful thrill that Derek was even trying to be subordinate. Even if it took both his object of affection bound and himself beaten and bloody to make him so, it was beautiful to feel that glimmer of power. But it was not enough, yet.

“Derek,” said Peter, conversationally.

Derek flinched under Peter’s fingers. “Yes?”

“I understand this rebellion. It was born of anger and fear.”

Derek didn’t reply. He looked at the floor.

“However, it was not an acceptable action for a beta.”

He took hold of Derek’s right arm and broke the bone in two.

Derek grunted with the pain, his whole body jerking for a moment, but generally doing a manly job of hiding it. Stiles flinched more, his gasp of horror louder and his eyes wider.

“Next time,” he whispered into Derek’s ear, “I will not be so merciful. And Stiles will be the one who receives your punishment.”

He pushed the bones back into alignment, so that they could eventually heal correctly, and stood, allowing Derek time to get control of his pain, and to show Stiles how easily physical conflict had been decided. The power of an alpha made them almost unbeatable. Betas never came away from challenges unscathed.

“But you are both aiming your anger at the wrong person,” Peter said aloud. “My only desire is to protect my pack. Making myself the alpha was the only way to do so, and now I have to make sure my pack is both strong and unified.”

Neither Stiles nor Derek responded. Peter would have liked to believe they were made speechless by the persuasiveness of his arguments, but he was not so naïve.

“Do you have somewhere to stay, Derek?” Peter asked. It was a generous question. Derek had never shown any care for Peter’s wellbeing, never wanted to know he had a bed and a roof over his head. But then, Peter was not as careless of his personal finances and safety as his nephew. Peter had never found himself living in the burned out remains of his family’s home, or an abandoned subway car.

Derek shook his head, which was the response Peter had expected. Of course he’d jumped on the first plane with no thought of anything except reaching Stiles. Of course he’d thought Peter would be foolish enough to kill his only real leverage over Derek.

Derek was a fool.

“In my generosity, and to show you that my leadership will be a time for pragmatism without the need for animosity, of course you can stay here, tonight,” Peter told him. “Even longer if you so wish.”

The cloud of hope that blossomed from Stiles following those words was intoxicating. Peter wished he could bottle the emotions that Stiles sent around him so generously. Werewolves would pay a fortune for such delicious scents. He took a moment to enjoy the fragrance before he had to destroy it.

“However, not being a fool, you know I cannot allow you your liberty.”

He heard the fear that made Stiles’ heart stutter.

Derek hadn’t responded to either pronouncement. He lay where he was, stiff and still. Submissive. Like a beta should be. He waited for Peter to make himself clear.

“Get up, Derek,” said Peter, knowing he’d be obeyed. “And stand against that wall.”

He could almost feel the sickened feeling in Derek’s stomach as he obeyed.

“Stay there, Derek,” said Peter.

A threat at these point seemed redundant, so Peter didn’t add one. He went to Siles and unlocked the cuffs. The boy shivered, kept his gaze away from Peter, and Peter felt an overwhelming desire to comfort him. He put his hand on Stiles shoulder, even as he spoke.

“Stiles, you have an important task now. You must remember that I can move faster than you can possibly imagine, that if you even think about disobeying my orders, I will hear it in your heartbeat, and I will be forced to hurt you.”

Stiles nodded, his gaze on Derek. Maybe he knew what was coming.

“In the third draw down of that unit, you will find a small bag of mountain ash,” Peter said. “You will fetch it, and then spread it in an arch around Derek. You will not approach me with it. You will use it all to be sure Derek cannot move more than two feet from that wall.”

Stiles did not obey immediately. Peter knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Stiles, do not force me to hurt you. If my first choice doesn’t go as planned, my only way of containing Derek will be to hurt him so badly that he is incapable of escape. Neither of us want that, do we?”

Stiles’ face showed every iota of horror the boy felt at the idea. He had to be imagining it, picturing what Peter could do to them. It would be enough for Peter to win this round.

The draw contained a small pack of mountain ash. Peter hoped he wouldn’t need to obtain more for some time, as it was something that could be used against him, too. The powder was in a sandwich bag. The sight of it still tempted Stiles as he picked it up. That powder was the only advantage he could have over anyone in that room. But he also knew it was the wrong time. He knew there was no way he could manipulate this situation, no chance to outwit Peter while he was being so carefully watched.

He obeyed meekly. He carefully poured the dust into a line around Derek, big enough for Derek to sit or lie down should he choose, with the wall to lean against. He used all the powder, and then threw the packet in Peter’s direction, while Derek tested his prison. He found it inescapable.

“Good boy,” said Peter, kindly. He put his comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder once more and guided him back to the radiator. Stiles didn’t fight, but he did plead. Peter had to deny him. He couldn’t allow Stiles to reach Derek. A free Stiles could help Derek escape, and Peter did not know how far he would go to get them back again.

He stroked Stiles’ hair as the cuffs clicked back on. Stiles didn’t flinch away, but neither did he relax into the hand. It was liking touching watching a sunset through a TV scene. But there was still time.

He put the door back in the frame as best he could, and made them both dinner, a healthy balanced meal with meat and vegetables. He kept up a stream of conversation, all of it minor, all of it all but ignored by both Stiles and Derek. The captives had both fallen silent, even Stiles’ crying made no noise, but Derek was clearly building up to a new explosion. His breathing was growing faster, shorter, the very air around him growing with anger. Peter would do nothing but wait for it.

He served up the dinner, passing a plate over the line to Derek, then sitting himself beside Stiles and unlocking the chain. He handed Stiles one of the plates and a fork with which to eat. He liked this feeling of closeness, of being provider, of the familiarity. He liked the feelings Stiles awoke in him, the way they were so positive and hopeful. He allowed himself a moment to pretend Stiles felt the same, that Derek wasn’t trapped, that the three of them were having a comfortable family meal.

“This is the beginning of the peace,” he told them. He was feeling a contentment he hadn’t felt since before his family was murdered. “We three, and Malia, of course, we are the rock upon which the pack can be built.”

“Bit of a God-complex, huh?” Stiles muttered into his food.

Peter laughed. “Well, it was my namesake, St Peter that Jesus called the rock upon which his church would be built.”

Stiles stared, “I can’t even…”

“That was a joke, Stiles,” Peter interrupted, “I don’t believe we are founding a new religion.”

He took a bite and chewed slowly, watching Stiles put his own forkful of food to his mouth, however reluctantly. The boy had been too stubborn for too long, and he was hungry now. No more accusations of poisoning were forthcoming. They ate their dinner without further incident.

Peter did the dishes and then excused himself. He went to his bedroom, just the other side of the slim dividing wall, and waited.

Derek coughed, awkward in a way that seemed unnatural on such a big man. He had always hidden his feelings for Stiles behind angry words, threats, but in this situation both would seem wrong to him. And he struggled at sympathy and kindness. Not because he didn’t feel them. He just feared them.

“Are you… OK?”

An inadequate question, in an inadequate voice. Stiles did not reply immediately. Peter imagined a look of consternation on his face.

“Tickety boo,” said Stiles.

His voice made Peter frown. He would have expected more energy in the sarcasm. Stiles always had an abundance of energy, a never ending supply.

“Hey,” said Derek, “We’re gonna be OK.”

Derek’s voice had unusual levels of warmth. It was almost tender, but Stiles only laughed unkindly.

“OK?” he repeated. “Ok? Derek, Scott’s de…”

He broke off. Unable to say the word.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, quietly, and so gently.

“What for?” Stiles asked, “You’re sorry you let your insane uncle come back to life? You’re sorry you fucked off and didn’t care if we lived or died?”

“Stiles,” Derek protested.

“You’re sorry your one remaining family member killed my best friend?!”

Peter sighed. That anger was directed at him. But Derek had no power over Stiles, so Derek received the anger. It was unfair, in a way. Peter relished every moment Stiles was honest with him.

There was silence between the two captives. Derek was so far from emotional maturity. It was like he’d reached sixteen then never got any further. He moved between flirting and rage, and very occasionally let out his damaged libido. However understandable that was, it would forever be a barrier between himself and someone like Stiles. Stiles who would grow and change and explore and blossom.

Peter would help him to blossom.

“I would give anything to stop that happening, Stiles,” Derek said, suddenly. It was an unusually open statement from him. But entirely inadequate.

Stiles sighed, misery replacing the anger in his tone. “I’m sorry, I…”

“You should be angry with me,” Derek argued.

“What for? Leaving the place where your family died? Running away from this… this…”

“I shouldn’t have left you,” said Derek.

In his bedroom, Peter found one of his claws had dug a hole into his mattress.

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Stiles, “But I understand why you did. I’m not a total dick.”

Peter ripped his claw from the mattress, making a long tear in the bedding. There was another silence from the living room, and Peter managed to still himself, unsure why he was getting angry at this. Nothing should be surprising him right now.

"Is your arm OK?" Stiles asked.

Derek grunted, "It'll heal."

A moment of pause followed before Stiles asked “Is Peter listening?” 

There was a further moment of silence. Peter kept his breathing even, neutral.

“Probably,” was all Derek could answer.

Stiles took a deep breath. “We can’t fight him, can we?” he said. “He’s stronger than you.”

There was no vocal reply from Derek, but he had to be nodding.

“OK,” said Stiles. “So we take our time, right? We don’t… do anything rash.”

“I can’t just let him keep you here, Stiles,” said Derek.

“You don’t have a choice,” Stiles pointed out. “Derek…”

Stiles paused. Maybe Derek was looking at him. Maybe they were reigniting that connection. 

“Derek,” Stiles tried again, “Don’t get killed, OK?” His voice broke, and the palm of Peter’s hand bled from his own claws. “I couldn’t stand it.”

They didn’t talk anymore. Peter had to remind himself they couldn't reach each other to hold hands. His own blood dripped between his fingers and onto his torn bedding.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for length of time between chapters.

A soft, pale glow trickled through the curtains. The light it provided was weak and watery, and the stillness made the whole image almost false to Peter. But it touched the side of Stiles’ face like a lover’s caress, not strong enough to wake him, just to paint his fair skin with silver highlights. His hair had grown dishevelled, during his two nights on the floor and no care. Peter made a note to send Derek for toiletries for the boy.

Derek slept too, but he was sat upright. Peter suspected he had not slept since before he’d received Peter’s message, and now he could see Stiles was alive, and not in immediate danger, the need for sleep had taken revenge. He knew it was not a voluntary decision on Derek’s part.

Peter’s nephew had tried to spend the whole night watching over Stiles. He would have stood over his body if he could. Even trapped as he was by the mountain ash, Derek had wanted to protect the human. In the cold light of day, Peter could see his nephew’s fixation for the value it had. With power over Stiles, Peter held power over Derek, and vice versa. They were the key to a strong and lasting pack.

Peter ordered a new door online, and did some grocery shopping while he was at it. He sent a further text to Stiles’ father and Scott’s mother, and Derek flinched awake when the Sheriff sent a short reply that made the phone vibrate in Peter’s hand.

Peter merely put a finger to his lips, and nodded in the direction of Stiles’ sleeping form. Derek followed the nod. The sight of sleeping Stiles once again awoke Derek’s cloud of emotions. If Derek had ever felt so strongly for Kate, maybe Peter would have understood Derek’s actions better. But then, if Derek had felt this strongly for Kate, everyone would have known about it.

“I have some errands for you to run today,” Peter said, softly.

Derek kept still. His mind had probably leapt to thoughts of escape, of manipulating the freedom that Peter gave him. Peter only sighed.

“Derek, there is nothing to run from, or too. This is reality now.”

His nephew glared.

Peter raised an eyebrow at that. “I could always leave you trapped and feed Stiles something to keep him asleep and go by myself, but that would be dangerous, don’t you think? What would happen if there were a fire?”

Peter had been planning that word selection for a while, preparing himself for it, so that Derek would feel his own emotions, without the comfort of sharing any with Peter. It got the effect Peter desired. Derek looked as though he had been punched. But Peter was left wondering why he’d chosen those words. What was he punishing Derek for? The fire, that happened eight years previously, or last night?

He mentally shook the thoughts from his head. He was making a point, demonstrating his own superiority, it wasn’t revenge, it was …

Peter coughed, clearing his own thoughts. “When Stiles has eaten, I shall have him free you.”

Derek nodded. He didn’t argue or plead. Peter looked at him, tried to read his expression or emotions. Neither were forthcoming. He was almost blank, except for that infuriating link to Stiles. It was alive now, shimmering, even though they were not looking at each other, even when one of them was asleep.

Peter unclenched his teeth, and began to get together the oatmeal. Stiles woke up of his own accord before it was ready. Peter watched the boy blink, his eyes flutter to Peter nervously then dart in search of Derek. The steadying of the boy’s heartbeat, the scent of relief did nothing to improve Peter’s mood. He didn’t react.

“Stiles,” he said, pulling the boy’s eyes from Derek, “Good morning.”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment. Peter thought he could see the thought process as his mind whipped through his possible words. Eventually the boy settled on “Good morning.”

Even though the words were completely without warmth or honesty, Peter smiled. “There now,” he said, “Civility. A far better method of interaction, don’t you think?”

Stiles shrugged and looked at the floor. 

Breakfast was a staid affair. Peter released Stiles when the oatmeal was served, and Stiles, under Peter’s careful watch, released Derek from the circle of ash. Then they sat down to breakfast like an ordinary family. After all, normal families occasionally suffered from poor conversation, or so Peter remembered from some family dinners with his own parents and siblings. Teenaged angst caused stiff silences as often as any genuine fallings out.

Stiles ate normally, finally accepting that Peter didn’t want him dead. Derek seemed more hesitant, but he ate too. And Peter could hope. Derek would follow Stiles’ lead. Stiles was a pragmatist. He would accept the status quo, he would accept that this was the best outcome for them all, and he would find his way to accepting the future as Peter planned it.

“So, Derek has agreed to fetch us some of the things we need,” said Peter, when the plates were clear, “I’ve brought toiletries for you, but if there’s anything in particular, a brand you prefer or something, just let us know.”

“Adderall?” Stiles muttered, quietly.

“What is that?” Peter asked, “A type of shampoo?”

Stiles looked at him as though he were an idiot. “It’s my medication,” he said, “For ADHD.”

Peter was not exactly surprised. He’d always known that Stiles had a slightly chemical part to his scent, and sometimes that part of his scent was strong and sometimes it wasn’t. It had been a miscalculation not to see this issue coming.

“My apologies,” said Peter, “I should have known.”

Stiles shrugged.

“But you should have told me sooner,” Peter added. Admitting the mistake, but turning it back on Stiles. Pragmatic. 

Stiles shrugged again, looking at the empty bowl before him.

“Is there some at your dad’s?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, looking at Derek with urgent eyes, “But if you go there, you mustn’t tell him where I am.”

“But…”

“I mean it Derek!” Stiles insisted, “He cannot turn up here. Promise me you won’t tell him!”

Derek nodded, understanding. “What do you want me to say?”

“You…” Stiles began.

“You will not let anyone who knows you see you,” Peter interrupted, firmly. “Our position here is better kept to ourselves.”

Derek looked at Stiles for confirmation. Peter slammed a fist onto the table, hard enough to send a crack through the wood.

“I am the alpha,” he said, “Do not doubt that it is my orders you shall be following.”

Stiles had leapt back from the table. Derek kept his gaze on Peter this time as he said, “Yes, Peter.”

Peter kept watch of Derek, his expression carefully neutral, even as he burned with anger. This was his pack. He controlled it.

“Stiles, in my office, which is the door just there, there is a desk.” Peter’s words were quiet. His gaze stayed on Derek. “In the top drawer there is a ruler. You will fetch it here.”

Stiles didn’t move. Peter could smell his fear, that heady cocktail once more. He licked his lips.

“You will obey me, Stiles,” said Peter. “Now.” The last word had a tiny hint of a growl in it. Stiles flinched at the sound, and obeyed. Peter could hear him going to the office, going straight for the correct drawer, taking out the one item, and bringing it back. All the while, Peter himself kept his cold eyes on Derek.

“Peter,” Derek said, as Stiles held the ruler out. Peter took the ruler.

“Hush, Derek,” he said. “You don’t want to make matters worse.”

“Peter, it was me…” Derek tried to say.

“Lift your hand, Stiles.”

Stiles obeyed. Derek pleaded some more.

“Punish me,” he said. “Peter, you don’t need to hurt him.”

Peter lifted the ruler and brought it down hard on Stiles’ palm. Stiles yelped. He would have a welt there for a while. Derek surged forward.

“Stay where you are the next is across his face,” Peter hissed. Derek stopped.

“Please, Peter,” he said. “Please…”

Peter lifted Stiles’ hand again, “Every time you fail to obey my rules, every time I even suspect you are going against me, it will be Stiles who bears the punishment.” He forced Stiles’ hand open once again, and brought the ruler down again. Once again, Stiles failed to hold in the sound of the pain, but this time, Derek held his hands up in surrender.

“OK,” he said, “I get it! I’m sorry!”

Peter forced Stiles’ hand open once again. He looked at the red lines he had made, the split skin and the bruising that was sure to form there.

“That will do,” he said. “Stiles go and sit on the couch, Derek take the list from the kitchen. You will remember Stiles’ Adderall without help, I assume?”

“Yes, Peter,” Derek said, but this time it was real. A true acquiescence, not a mockery. He hurried to obey.

“Good,” Peter said. He noticed Stiles was already sat on the couch, smelling of salt and self-pity. Peter waited for Derek to go before he joined the boy.

Stiles didn’t even look at him. He was holding his wrist, the damaged hand facing towards his chest, but too painful to touch.

“This isn’t fair,” he said, “You’re going to use me to teach everyone in the pack to follow you?”

“No,” said Peter, “Just Derek.”

“And how’s that working out?” Stiles said, sarcastically.

“Very well, actually,” said Peter, conversationally. “He doesn’t find submitting to me natural yet, but he will.”

“Are you joking?” said Stiles.

“No,” Peter assured him, and patted his shoulder.

Stiles shrugged him off. “I… he just feels guilty! He’s going to run!”

“No he’s not,” Peter replied, almost laughing.

“He is!” Stiles snapped, “Out of sight, out of mind! He doesn’t care!”

Peter laughed at him. “Humans are so strange!” he chuckled.

Stiles stared. Peter stroked is hair, marvelling that Stiles could be so clever and so blind all at once.

Stiles shrugged the hand off, once again. “Peter…” he began.

“Yes?” Peter prompted.

Stiles turned properly to look at him, his hand still held to his chest protectively, but his gaze now tight on Peter’s face. A searching gaze. “Are you going to kill me?”

Peter sighed. So clever and yet so stupid. “If you were dead, what leverage would I have over Derek?”

“I’m not leverage over Derek!” Stiles snapped, “I’m… I’m no one!”

Peter forced himself no to reply straight away. He almost cried out his protest at the words. Stiles was far from no one. But then, maybe Stiles’ crippling lack of self-confidence was a tool Peter could use.

“Are you?” Peter replied.

“Yes!” Stiles insisted, “I can’t even turn into a monster! I’m just… I’m a loser! I’m the sheriff’s weird ADHD kid! The only thing I had was Scott! And now I don’t have him and … and I don’t… I don’t get it!”

“Now you’ve got me,” said Peter.

“But… I don’t get why you want me!” Stiles cried.

Peter sighed, “We’ve been through this, surely,” he said.

“Not so much, no,” said Stiles. “I asked you why I’m not dead yet, and you said ‘because I want you alive’. Because you’re a cryptic asshole.”

Peter took his injured hand. Stiles flinched back, though he couldn’t free the hand. His heart rate peaked once again.

“Peter… Peter… I…”

Peter squeezed the injured hand, just enough. Stiles groaned with the pain, and squeezed his eyes closed.

“I don’t like hurting you, Stiles,” he said. “Please stop making me.”

“I’m not…” Stiles grunted.

“Just… just manners, that’s all I ask from you,” Peter said, quietly. It was a lie. There was so much more he wanted from Stiles.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Stiles said. “I won’t call you an… that again.”

“Good,” said Peter.

Stiles flinched again, as though he expected another punishment. “I just… I’m scared. Are you going to kill me?”

Peter frowned. The boy’s eyes were wide. Anxiety was a good look on him.

“Not if you don’t make me,” he told the boy.

“Like I made you punish me?” Stiles sneered, but instantly shouted, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean… I’m sorry!”

“Yes, like you made me punish you,” said Peter, “When you tried to manipulate Theo and Liam into thinking you were in charge, and when you insulted me.”

“I insult everyone,” said Stiles.

“You will respect me,” said Peter.

Stiles nodded. “I will. I’ll try! It’s not a strength…”

He was looking at Peter so earnestly, his breathing slightly hurried. Peter smiled. That face, that slightly upturned nose, those cheekbones. Stiles was breath-taking. He put a hand to the boy’s face. “I’m sure you’ll do splendidly,” he said. A master manipulation. Carrot and stick. He had faith in Stiles. Eventually, Stiles would know he did what he did for the good of the pack.

“Sit back,” Peter told him.

Stiles obeyed, sitting back in the sofa, his back against the cushions. He drew his legs towards his chest, but then folded them, making a little nest for his injured hand.

“I’ll bring you an ice pack,” Peter told him, and went to fetch one he’d placed in the freezer ready for minor injuries of his new human pack member. Stiles watched his every move. If Peter tried, he could pretend that was respect. One day, that look would be admiration.


	5. Chapter 5

A slim hand rested on his chest. A gentle weight and warmth over his heart. Peter hummed, contentedly. The light beyond his eyelids was pure and brilliant.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” murmured a voice in his ear.

Peter opened his eyes. He had to blink a few times to make the bright images before him clear. And then there was Stiles. His face hovered bare inches above Peter’s own. He smiled to see Peter’s eyes open, his complexion ethereal in the early morning sunshine.

“Morning,” said Peter.

He lifted a hand to Stiles’ face. The boy leaned into it, his eyes drifting closed momentarily. It was almost catlike, as though the boy were near to purring in contentment.

“You are beautiful,” Peter told him, with complete honesty.

Stiles blushed, looked down, the corners of his lips twitching.

“I mean it,” said Peter, pushing, daring the smile. “The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re biased,” Stiles told him, but his lips rewarded Peter, showing that smile that rivalled the sunshine for brilliance.

“No,” said Peter, “I see each of my pack exactly as they are. It’s essential that I see each threat and each advantage without bias or sentimentality.”

Stiles bit his lip, looked away. Peter caught his face with one hand, guided the face back up, until their eyes met. “Don’t hide from me,” Peter told him. “I want to see how beautiful you are.” With his thumb, he brushed Stiles’ caught lip, broke it free from the teeth that kept it prisoner. Then he lifted his own head, caught Stiles lips in a beautiful kiss.

He awoke to the sound of a soft thud. He blinked in the light, the real light this time. He heard the heartbeat without breathing. The sudden complete lack of movement. He looked to where the sound had come from.

Stiles, crouched over the remains of the door. When Derek had left, Peter had leaned the heavy, cracked wood in the doorway. Stiles would have had to use all his strength to move it, even in what was just a slowing of its decent. But there was no handle, so Stiles must have lowered it as far as he could, as close to the floor as possible before he trapped his fingers. He’d stopped breathing when the wood thumped against Peter's floor. In fairness to Stiles, a human would probably not have been woken by the noise.

Their eyes met. Stiles knew he’d been caught. His breathing came in a sudden gasp.

“Oh, Stiles,” said Peter, “You disappoint me.” He hid the true depth of that disappointment; the sheer misery in his discovery that he’d dreamed that moment, that only in his head did Stiles wake him with a slim hand to the chest, with a shy smile and a gentle kiss.

“It was worth a try, right?” the boy mumbled. He glanced through the open doorway.

Peter stretched, “Don’t bother,” he advised, “I’d catch you before you got, hmm, five yards.”

It was a bitter tang of disappointment that met Peter’s nose when he stood to bring Stiles back inside. A dash of salt, too, but Stiles just managed to hold the tears in this time.

“A new door is arriving tomorrow,” Peter said, conversationally, as he guided Stiles back to the radiator.

“I won’t try again,” said Stiles, “I promise, I’ll just…”

“I’ll have to think about what to do with you while the workmen are here,” said Peter.

Stiles kept talking over him, his endless stream of words, flying wild, like always. “I meant what I said! I’ll do what you want, I’ll respect you, I’ll…”

“I guess it will have to be the safe,” Peter said, quietly.

He thought that Stiles wasn’t really listening to him, but those words must have struck home. Stiles froze again, heart pounding like someone shaking a maraca. “Well, I can hardly have you handcuffed to a radiator when workmen are here, can I?” Peter asked. “And you seem adamant that I cannot trust you to be free.”

“I’m sorry!” Stiles repeated, an explosion of babbling, “I just need to see my dad! Please! I’ll do whatever you say, but please… I don’t even know what I’m begging for! I wanna see my dad!”

Peter cuffed him to the radiator once more. Stiles shook the cuff, but without energy.

“Please, Peter,” said Stiles. “I’m scared… I… what do you want from me?”

“I’ve told you already, Stiles,” said Peter, “I want you in my pack. I want to be able to trust you and for you to trust that I am protecting my pack.”

“Alright,” Stiles cried, throwing his free hand up like a surrender, “I’ll be in your pack. You let Liam promise and then go, so I’ll promise, you can tell I’m not lying…"

“Oh, Stiles,” said Peter, “You know Liam is not clever enough to organise any kind of coup.”

“I’m not either!” said Stiles, “I’m the weird ADHD kid. I can’t persuade my chem partner to do half the assignment!”

“Stiles,” Peter put just enough warning in his voice, “We both know that if I gave you an inch you would try to find a way to kill me.”

“You were asleep, and all I tried to do was run,” Stiles argued.

“Yes,” said Peter, thoughtfully. “You didn’t think you could succeed in killing me quickly enough. You have no wolfsbane, and even if you did, you know death would not be instantaneous.”

“I could have cut you in half,” said Stiles. “I didn’t.”

“With what?” said Peter. “You tried to run because it was the only option you had.”

“I could have stabbed you through the eye,” Stiles hissed, viciously, “That would have got to your brain.”

“But even if you got close enough without waking me up, you could still not have been sure I would die,” said Peter. “I know how you think, Stiles.”

“Then you could predict anything I tried,” said Stiles. “I’m not a threat.”

“You killed me once,” said Peter. “I will not underestimate you.”

“As part of a large group,” Stiles argued. “Which I don’t have anymore!”

“Stiles, you know that’s a lie,” Peter chided. “And I don’t think you want me to make it true.”

Stiles snapped his mouth closed and glared. Peter thought about that bitten lip in his dream. That bashfulness. Stiles had that underlying self-doubt, that endearing sense of his own inferiority that was based on the cruelty of idiot children. But bashful was not Stiles’ natural emotion. He was angry and resentful and strong. He was a firecracker, a ball of anger. But Peter could bring out that tenderness too. Eventually.

“I just… I don’t get it,” said Stiles. “Why are you keeping me here? You haven’t been out of the apartment in days, you’re not searching for Malia, you’re not… not building a pack… You’re just sitting here! Just so you can babysit a human? I don’t get it!”

Peter shrugged. He hoped it was enigmatic.

“What do you want from me?” Stiles asked.

The boy was making himself upset. His imagination was running wild, even as he dismissed his every idea.

“Hush,” Peter told him, “I have already told you.”

Stiles closed his eyes. Tears, threatened once again.

“I want to see my dad,” he said.

“When I can trust you,” Peter told him. “When I know you believe I want the best for you and my pack, and you know I am the most able to deliver it.”

“OK,” said Stiles, “I believe you. You want what you think is the best. You’re a fucking genius. Can I go now?”

This conversation was getting them nowhere. Stiles was going around and around in a circle. It was the father that was causing the confusion and holding him back from seeing the truth of the matter. Peter would have to think of a way to allow him access. He’d think about it.

He didn’t reply to Stiles. He just walked away. He replaced the door across the doorway and then went about some business. He had accounts to attend to, bills to pay. He could not spend his every minute thinking about skinny teenagers.

He had managed few of the tasks he had set himself before he heard Derek’s car arrive. It had been a frustrating afternoon, haunted by ethereal lips descending upon his. He didn’t need to hear Stiles’ heart skip when he too realised Derek was returned. He reconsidered killing Derek. But that was unfair. He’d always known Stiles was drawn to his idiot nephew. His plan was to use the connection. It was a good plan. He didn’t need to alter it.

“My nephew returns,” he told Stiles, and didn’t pause for breath. He spoke over the heartbeat, thrust the jealousy from his mind, “He should have brought your medication. That will help you keep better control of your emotions, I trust?”

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it will just give me enough focus to figure out a better way to kill you.”

Peter looked down at him. The chain did not give Stiles sufficient space to stand, so the boy looked up at Peter. Still that defiance. Peter smiled at him. “Do you feel braver when Derek is around?”

A slight reddening in Stiles’ cheeks told Peter more than he wanted. He felt his lip curl, the smile becoming a sneer. “You know how weak he is, don’t you?” he said, “I don’t just mean that I could tear him to pieces in a physical fight, which you’ve seen. I mean, he’s broken inside. Not that he was ever whole. He killed the people he loved, or they killed him, every time. What do you think that did to him?”

Stiles glared. His face and his words were his only weapon, but both were wielded carelessly and violently. “Because you are a stable and well-rounded personality,” the boy sneered. “You killed your own niece because you wanted power. You were killed by a whole bunch of people but for some reason didn’t take the hint! Your daughter can’t stand the sight of you! You…”

Peter’s hand grasped Stiles throat. It didn’t have permission from his brain, but the claws were extended. They lined boy's trachea, four on one side, one on the other. He could tear the throat out. He could be done with this boy with a flick of his hands.

Stiles was silent. Even his breathing seemed to have stopped. His terror was palpable. Peter breathed in the sweet scent, and leaned in even closer.

“Is this what you want?” Peter asked, “Would it make it easier if I threatened you with death?”

His voice was calm. Stiles probably could not have guessed how close Peter came to losing control. It wasn’t so much the words, as the spirit, the disregard and dismissive way it was delivered. It was the way teenagers spoke to bad teachers, teachers they neither feared nor respected. After the dream, it was intolerable. If Peter couldn't get the boy's respect, he would get his fear and with it, his submission.

Stiles whispered his response. “You won’t be able to control Derek if you kill me,” he said. But he wasn’t certain. Because he was Stiles, and still totally unaware of his own powers.

“Or, if you are a weeping mess upon the floor, Derek will be even more broken than he is now,” said Peter. “If you are a bloody pile of guts and skin, Derek will kill himself. Maybe it would be better to start afresh. A new pack. No mess.”

Stiles bit his lip. He’d had to gasp in breaths, but tried to do so without moving a millimetre. It was enticing to watch that pale neck stretched so.

“What would you do to stop me killing you, Stiles?” Peter asked.

Stiles squeaked, a tiny terrified sound, as though he’d only just realised there was another card on the table. As though the thought someone might want his body had never occurred to him before.

“I… I said… I’ll join…” he stumbled he words.

Peter leaned his face even closer, his face basking in the bouquet of Stiles’ aroma. The fear and tension and wild thoughts and desperation. “As what?” Peter whispered.

But he didn’t give Stiles a chance to answer. He pulled away, knowing that Derek was about to step out of the elevator onto his floor.

Stiles gasped in a breath, like a broken sob. He pulled his legs up to himself. Peter smiled. There was that vulnerability he craved. Stiles would accept his weakness and fall in line behind the strongest protector. That protector was Peter.

He’d been so enthralled with Stiles’ emotions, he only now realised the two pairs of footsteps approaching his door. He recognised the scent immediately. His heart leapt. Pack, family, protect. His own confused emotions, his own weakest point.

Malia was about to enter his apartment.

 


	6. Chapter 6

He wanted to close a door on Stiles, to hide him. He wanted to cover the stink of the boy’s fear, to clear the air. He had expected more time. He was not ready for the arrival of Malia. He did not want her to know of the boy's journey, or suspect the tale from the smell of his emotions in the air.

But then, Malia was his daughter. She would understand. She would know that Peter acted for the best interests of them all. He was good and strong and he would protect his small and damaged pack. He would mend it from the weakness and mess with which McCall had broken it.

And she owed Stiles no loyalty. He had taken her virginity, and she his, and then he had lied to her and abandoned her. He’d chosen her as a substitute for those he couldn’t have. He’d chosen her for her ferocity that reminded him of Derek. She should not pity him nor wish to help him.

Peter had done nothing wrong. He would never take advantage of the boy. His previous words had been a punishment for his poor attempt at escape, for his stupidity. A way to make his heart race, and to set his mind reeling. It was not real malice, not real! 

Derek knocked this time. Peter gave Stiles a look of warning. Be silent, the look said. Stiles didn’t argue with it. His eyes were still wide, his legs still pulled up defensively, as though to shield his body from Peter’s gaze. His eyes were damp, and a tear was teetering on the edge of falling. Peter considered the bag, to hide those tears, but it would not protect from the smell. There was nothing he could do.

He pulled the door out of the doorway. Malia was stood beside Derek, dressed casually, yet standing stiff and strange. She met his eyes at first, but looked away within moments.

“Malia,” Peter greeted. His voice was laced with wonder and joy to see her, but the moment was tinged with the previous one. His happiness darkened by the threat he’d just given to Stiles.

“Peter,” she said, quietly. Her eyes lifted to his and dropped once again, unsettled as she must have felt.

Derek barged past Peter, but Peter didn’t spare him a glance. Malia was still stood awkwardly in the hallway.

“Come inside,” he said.

Malia looked at him, a cold, unfriendly glance, and then stepped into the apartment, careful not to touch him. Peter held the disappointment deep within, and pushed the door back into the frame.

Derek had sprung to Stiles. He seemed to be checking him for damage, hands running over Stiles' limbs without protest from Stiles himself. Peter sneered. But now was not the time for petty jealousies. He gave his attention back to Malia.

She barely spared Stiles a glance. Presumably, Derek had already filled her in on the situation. She folded her arms distancing herself from the situation.

“Is it true?” she asked.

Peter considered delaying, asking her what she meant, but it didn’t feel right. “I killed Scott McCall,” he said, instead, “To protect my pack. To make it strong and whole. That includes you.”

Malia kept her face stiff. She was sad to lose her friend, which was understandable. But eventually she would see the necessity of Peter’s actions.

“And, as you can see, I have taken Stiles captive until he is no longer a threat,” Peter added. “I would like for him to join our pack. I hope that will not be awkward for you.”

Malia shrugged, looking around herself casually. It bothered her, but Peter was not yet sure which part. Did she have a problem with the whole plan or just parts of it? Did she want to be a part of Peter's pack, or did she want to run as a wild coyote again? Did she want Stiles for herself, even after all this? Would Peter give him to her, even knowing the boy didn't love her? Even knowing how his own jealousy would build thinking of them together?

And the scent of Stiles' fear still flavoured the air, like the lingering feeling of guilt that still held Peter in its grip. Even though there was nothing to be guilty about.

"Are you going to keep me chained to a radiator, too?" Maria asked. The question might have been designed to provoke, but she used a blank voice, as though the answer didn't matter to her.

"No," said Peter. "I do not believe you are a threat to me."

Malia shrugged again. "I haven't decided yet," she said.

Stiles, being who he was, did not hold in his thoughts. Peter would train him better than that eventually, but now he shouted at Malia. "He killed Scott!"

Peter nodded. He felt no guilt at all for the death of McCall. Bad alphas had to die. "It was for the good of the pack," he said simply.

"That's the biggest load of bull shit!" Stiles shouted.

"I thought you had decided to play the good little captive?" Peter asked him, with faux curiosity. "Just moments ago you were swearing allegiance. What has changed? "

Stiles threw his head back and groaned with annoyance, though it was unclear who he was annoyed with. 

Derek stood tall once more. "Can you unchain him?" he asked. 

"No," said Peter, firmly, "He tried to run."

"Of course I tried to run!" Stiles cried. 

"It was foolish to try," Peter told him.

"Why does he smell like that?" Malia asked, voice still casual, heart still steady. She didn't show any judgement of her father for the decisions he had made. She was merely seeking information. She wanted him to educate her, not excuse himself.

"As you heard," he said, "He attempted to escape, obliging me to threaten him. He is not hurt. It is fear."

"Because it's the only way he can think of to get people to do what he wants!" Stiles snarled. "Fear!" 

Peter flinched a little. He hadn't wanted to do this here. He hadn't pictured it this way. Malia was important. It mattered what she thought. He did not want to manipulate her. He wanted her to agree with him.

He stepped closer to his daughter, carefully touched her shoulder, "I am doing this for the best," he told her. "The pack was weak, and vulnerable to every threat. I will make it strong so we can be safe. Until I have the confidence of the full pack, I am forced to make decisions you might not understand, but you need to know that I do these things for the good of the whole."

Malia didn't react, not to push his hand away or to accept his words. She blinked at him. Peter was surprised at the anxiety he felt to be waiting for her to respond. He wanted her to be in his pack. He wanted his family, Malia, Derek, and Cora. The adolescents who had gathered around McCall were all very well, but the Hales should be together, ruling the town, with their minions around them, and Stiles... Stiles fit in there somewhere.

Malia turned. Very suddenly she trotted out, not looking back. Peter didn't follow. He breathed in her scent, the strange, heady mix. She smelt like so much he desired, like pack and family and potential. And all of it left with her. Leaving Peter to the souring scents of Stiles’ fear and Derek’s anger.

He turned to his captives. His nephew and Stiles. Stiles always had something to say. He had sarcasm in the bucket load, he had something irreverent and almost vicious to say. Something to cut through the loss of Malia. Something to spark more than the emptiness inside Peter.

The boy was sat against the wall, Derek crouched beside him. Both were staring at Peter, eyes sharp and judging. Fear and pity. Neither spoke a word. Not a protest, not a plea. Nothing. They offered Peter no escape from the rolling clouds in his stomach.

Peter roared.

He closed his eyes and let the fury and misery pound out of him. A raw, violent, thunderous, tempest of emotion. His claws dug into his hands and tore through the leather of his shoes to dig in the wooden floor at his feet. He knew he’d transformed, taking on the alpha shift in the intensity of his feeling and his lack of feeling.

Malia was a stranger to him. And yet she was the light.

An immeasurable amount of time later, he opened his eyes. Cringing away from him were Stiles and Derek. They leaned close to each other, their hands gripping at each other, quaking to look upon him. Their fear at the sight of Peter’s full shift was compelling. The power brought a shallow trickle of pleasure back to Peter. He was the alpha, he was master of his house and his pack. He owned these creatures before him, as surely as the moon pulled at his soul.

He dropped to all fours, his claws clattering against the floor. Derek leaned in front of Stiles, his protector. The fool. When he was close enough, Peter wrapped a claw about his nephew’s neck, and pushed him to the floor, out of the way. He leaned close to Stiles.

“You’re mine,” he told the boy, his shift deepening his voice, making him sound like the devil himself, speaking from the depths of hell. “You belong to me, like Malia and Derek and this strange little town. Nod that you understand.”

The boy stared at Derek, where he was pressed to the ground by Peter’s claw, but Peter didn’t look.

“Nod!” he repeated. “You understand!”

Stiles flinched away, then nodded, hurriedly. “I understand,” he whispered.

It was more than Peter asked for, and Peter smiled around his protruding teeth. He put his lips to the boy’s cheek and pressed a kiss to it. A monstrous kiss. When Peter kissed him as a human, Stiles would be grateful for it.

He shook his head out, shaking off the shift, allowing his form to return to human, his claws to shrink, his features to soften, his teeth to blunt. He let Derek up from the floor, and was pleased when he didn’t try to return to his former spot so close to the boy.

“Right,” he said. “Dinner, anyone?”

He went to the kitchen, made himself busy, strangely pleased with himself. The performance would have had them reeling. They would be questioning his sanity. They would not act against him now. They didn’t know how much of that was real. Fear would hold them captive better than Peter alone.

“You love her a lot, don’t you?”

Peter hadn’t expected a comment. He froze at his work.

“I… I just mean… it’s a good thing!” Stiles rambled. “I … I admire it! She’s lucky!”

Peter turned to him. Did he have a ploy? Was he intending to manipulate Peter into letting him see his own father? Did it matter if he tried?

Stiles swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to… I’ll…”

Peter turned away from him. But apparently, Stiles didn’t know when to stop.

“It’s just… that was the first time I believed you.”

Peter didn’t turn back to him. The words weren’t a lie, but they weren’t what Peter wanted. Not entirely.

He cooked some dinner, a stir fry with plenty of vegetables and chicken. It didn’t take much time, and he felt Derek stand and begin to set the table ready for dinner, as though they were a normal family. It was a nice feeling.

Peter served the dish, and then released Stiles. Stiles allowed Peter to guide him to the table, and accepted the meal with a small word of thanks. Gracious, Peter nodded to accept the thanks and then ate, also. The meal proceeded without words, but Peter relished the peace.

After they’d eaten, Stiles stood to clear the dishes without prompting. With Derek’s assistance, he washed them and dried them and did his best to put them away, while Peter watched without comment. Malia should have seen this moment, this hope. Maybe then she would have stayed.

“She might come back, you know,” said Stiles at one point, apparently psychic today. “She just needs to think about it.”

If Peter were weaker willed, he might have believed Stiles was attempting to make him feel better. He smiled, anyway, a reward for what was good behaviour, even if it was only skin deep.

“Come here, Stiles,” he said.

He heard the uptick in both the heartbeats. He saw tension in Derek’s shoulders as he stopped in the middle of wiping a glass dry. He saw the shake in Stiles’ hand as he put the plate he held down on the counter. He lifted his own hand in the direction of the boy, palm up, waiting for his order to be obeyed. With understandable trepidation, Stiles made his way across the kitchen area, to where Peter was sat in a chair by the table.

Putting his hand on Peter’s, uncertainty obvious, Stiles waited for further instructions. His heart beat softly within his chest, but too fast. His hand was slightly clammy in Peter’s. Peter pulled him gently closer, then guided him until he was sat upon Peter’s lap. It was like moving an old Ken doll, where the joints needed a small force having lost their flexibility, but gentleness in case of breaking, but Peter persisted. Soon he had the stiff, awkward boy tucked against his chest, though he was too tall for it to be truly comfortable. He stroked the arm furthest from him, and gave him time to relax a little.

“Now,” he said, quietly, “You need to understand that you cannot manipulate me.”

“I…”

Peter hushed him. “There’s no need to deny it. I know that’s what you were trying to do, and I understand, but you must know that it will not work.”

Stiles nodded against him.  Peter accepted that as his word.

“Good boy,” Peter crooned. “And you also must know that Malia’s exit was your fault.”

Stiles tried to pull away. Peter held him close.

“No, I know you did not see it going that way, but  you forced me to threaten you, you forced me to scare you, and your doing so made Malia scared of me. Her own father. She should know I would never hurt her, but because of you, she felt she had to run.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles gasped.

“No, I know,” said Peter, “I know.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Stiles begged, and his face grew damp against Peter’s shirt.

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter sighed. “You foolish boy.”

“Please!” the boy pleaded, “I’m sorry! I won’t try to run again! I’m sorry.”

Peter hushed him again, “Look at what this upset is doing to poor Derek.”

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was frozen in the kitchen. Like he wanted to attack, but didn’t dare.

“When you misbehave, I have to punish you,” said Peter, “But when I punish you, he wants to fight. You saw what happened when he tried to fight me, didn’t you Stiles? He cannot fight an alpha with any hope of anything other than pain.”

“I’m sorry!” Stiles repeated.

“Yes, I know,” said Peter, “But if I do not punish you, you might begin to think this behaviour is acceptable. It is not, I assure you.”

“I won’t!” Stiles cried, “I swear, I won’t try again! I already told you I wouldn’t!”

“There, there,” Peter crooned, stroking the boy’s hair, trying to calm him. “I will not hurt you.”

Stiles looked up.

“I think,” Peter explained, “Tonight you shall sleep in the safe. Tomorrow I shall allow you out for some exercise and the like, then put you back before the workmen arrive.”

Stiles shook his head. “Please,” he whispered.

Peter scooped him up as he stood. “I do this for your own good. You know that.”

“No!”

Derek stepped forward, his claws descended. Peter was ready for him, but Stiles beat him to it.

“No!” he cried, louder and desperate. “It’s OK, Derek! You don’t need to do anything! I’ll be fine.”

Derek crumbled.

“Trust me!” Stiles cried. “I will be fine.”

Derek bowed his head and stood back. Peter smirked at him. Taking orders from a human. There was no surprise that Derek had been so utterly destroyed as an alpha. The man was weakness personified.

Peter took Stiles on his way. Derek didn’t follow.


End file.
